Ms Winslow
by A.K.A. Anonymous
Summary: PG for occasional swear words and inuendo. Other than that, it's just a normal day at the office for Mr. Winner's assistant, Ms. Winslow. The poor lady.


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Title: Ms. Winslow  
Author: A.K.A. Anonymous  
Genre: Humor  
Pairings: implied 3x4  
Warnings: It's my bad humor--Run away! Run away!  
Notes: There's probably a billion fics like this on the web, but heck, they're fun! Hope you enjoy!  
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Ms. Winslow was a professional corporate assistant from the tips of her gray-blonde hair to the patent leather toes of her high heels. She had worked hard and loyally for the same corporation for more than thirty years and she was damn proud of it.  
  
Ms. Winslow was no coffee-fetching secretary or ass-kissing 'yes-woman'--her wrinkle framed eyes saw all, knew all and watched all in her domain like a hawk circling for prey. She understood the runnings of her office better than anyone, save her superior; from the day-to-day workload, special projects, office pools and gossip-mongers to the rented security guards. She was practically on a first name basis with the door mice.  
  
The woman also knew the ins and outs of her boss, both in and out of the public spot light. Which was why she was not surprised that Mr. Winner arrived late with a steaming mug in one hand, a briefcase clasped in the other, and a weary, bull-headed look on his face.   
  
No, not surprised at all. 'Like father...' she smirked, watching the young man--a third her age, though perhaps only in body, if not heart and spirit--set his jaw and march straight for his office. Doing his best to ignore the fuming brunette on his heels. "Like son."  
  
Quatre Winner stopped, glaring for a moment at his assistant. "Did you say something, Ms. Winslow?" His voice was gruff with lack of sleep and annoyance.  
  
"Welcome," the older woman smoothed quickly. She smiled brightly at the short blonde and received a 100 watt smile in return, a pure social-butterfly reaction that annoyed the boy even more, though he clenched his teeth and tried not to show it.  
  
"Tankyu, Mish Inslow," the boy gritted, turned and stalked past. If not for the plush carpet, he might have been able to stomp out his frustration, but it didn't, so he slammed the door instead. Right in his companion's face.  
  
"Quatre, I'm not done talking to you!" Mr. Barton spoke with a razor edge to his normally calm voice. This only reinforced Ms. Winslow's speculations that Mr. Barton was: A) just as stubborn as Mr. Winner.  
  
"Go away, Trowa! I don't want to discuss it anymore!" The answer came through the oak doors with amazing clarity.  
  
"Well, too bad!" the burnette hissed. "Open these doors or...or I'll break them down!" Ms. Winslow sighed, plus, B) had the same flare for the dramatic, not to mention the pride and physical strength to do whatever they got stuck in their stubborn heads.   
  
"You--you do that and I'll--I'll have you arrested!"  
  
"Call all the rent-a-cops you want! You honestly think they could take me?!"  
  
"Then I'll kick you out myself!"  
  
"You could try!"  
  
And, C) no matter Mr. Barton or Mr. Winner might present to the world, at heart they were still children. Though extremely intelligent, powerful, and hard-headed children. Ms. Winslow listened to the argument just long enough to get a grasp of the situation, sigh wistfully--thinking to herself that youth is indeed wasted on the young--and still have time to step in as Mr. Barton sized up the door and walked back to get a running start at it.  
  
"Mr. Winner!" she called sweetly, holding a hand up to stop the human wrecking ball with a uni-bang. "I have those reports you wanted to see. You have to have them signed off by the end of the day, sir."  
  
Trowa waited impatiently, listening to the hum of the air-conditioner as they await Quatre's reply. If the door so much as cracked open, he was muscling through. Quatre hadn't spent the last three years working with jungle animals in a traveling circus; Trowa had the advantage of weight and height and he wasn't afraid to use it to get into that damn office.   
  
"Slid them under the door, if you would, Ms. Winslow," the Winner President commanded.   
  
The older woman called back a cheerful affirmative while holding back one irked-off clown. "I'll just go get them for you, Mr. Winner!" Grabbing a fistful of long brown hair, the woman guided the steaming young man down a side hall, stopping short of her office by a few yards to jerk her quarry towards the wall.   
  
"What the HELL do you think you're doing?!" the boy growled, searching for a way to escape the iron grip on his bangs without disabling Quatre's assistant for a good long while...though as she led him down the hall, he gave more and more consideration to letting his instincts take over, for good or worse. At least he wouldn't be crouched over and led around like a dog.  
  
Just as he was planning his revenge, the woman released him, pushing his head towards a vent in the wall. Ms. Winslow readjusted her gold watch and straightened her jacket, commenting lightly, "This climate can be very harsh, Mr. Barton. Did you know that?" The furious young man scowled at her. "The summers are especially brutal, that's why all of these offices are equipped with large air-conditioning vents." She looked pointedly at the vent then back at Trowa. "All of them...and they're connected..."  
  
Trowa's eyes narrowed wickedly. "Are you sure?"  
  
The gray-haired lady beamed, turning to continue to her office, "Have a good day, Mr. Barton."  
  
When she come back through the hall, moments later, reports in hand, it was empty. The vent looked undisturbed. She wasn't surprised.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Hours later, Ms. Winslow received a page from Mr. Winner's office and responded quickly. Entering the large room, noticing that the doors had been un-barred and pointedly not looking around. Especially not for, say, tall brunettes or open vents, she presented herself before her employer with a smile and asked if she might be of assistance.  
  
"Ahhhh, Ms. Winslow! Thank you for cooooming so fast," the blonde boy chirped. Oddly he didn't stand to greet her, nor offer his hand. In fact, the boy looked like he had been de-boned like a fish, his whole body relaxed and his face was flushed, she watched him carefully, fearing he was coming down with a bug. "I have the--the, ah--forms for the New Years party here," he held up several packets in a loose grip. "If you could send them in for me, that would be g-great."  
  
Quatre's assistant nodded, skimming the forms quickly, "Hm," she frowned.  
  
"Hmmnnng?" Quatre hummed in question.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Winner," she said, squinting at one paper, "your writing at the end here, is a little...scribbled. Is that fifty blue...balls?"  
  
The young president choked for a moment, tugging on his already loosened tie. His free hand suddenly gripped an innocent pen in a crushing hold. After regaining his breath, though it was still a little quick, he stumbled out, "S-sorry, that's, er--I'll need five hundred blue and silver BALLoons for the News Years B-b-ball."  
  
Ms. Winslow forced herself not to stare at her flustered superior, simply nodding and making the proper adjustments. "Will that be all, sir?"  
  
"YES!"  
  
Turning to leave, Ms. Winslow smiled and reached for the door, only to turn back and ask politely, "Oh, have you seen Mr. Barton?"   
  
She had never seen a face turn so red.  
  
"Oh...he's around."  
  
"Hm, the way he was speaking this morning, I would have thought he would have done anything to make you come out."  
  
The blonde boy scowled for a split second, then he inhaled deeply and smiled. "Oh, he's still working on that."  
  
Ms. Winslow nodded acknowledgement and said her good-day, closing the door behind her. She walked back to her office with a straight face. She was a professional.   
  
She wouldn't smirk and think too smugly about her employer's behavior. Nope, not of his suddenly stuttered speech, how he was flush and perspiring in a fully air-conditioned office. Nor of his scribbled, smudged writing. Nor of the shoes that were peeking out of his desk.  
  
Brown, leather lace-up shoes.   
  
No, not when she knew Mr. Winner had worn black loafers into work today. And she knew who wore comfortable brown shoes.   
  
She was a professional, after all.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Get out from under there this instant!"  
  
"Don't tell me you didn't like that."  
  
"You think you can win this argument by doing that?!"  
  
"Of course not. But it does cool you off for me long enough to beg."  
  
"No. That's it. Final word. Period."  
  
"Quatre!"  
  
"No, Trowa. We're having dinner at Natasia's and that's that. We spent last Easter at Cathy's."  
  
"And last summer with Jah'de and Halloween with Nareen and Thanksgiving with...I don't remember all of them!"  
  
"Well, just invite Cathy to come! You know she can!"  
  
"I know, but...your sisters don't like my sister."  
  
"That's not true."  
  
"Quatre, some of them don't even like *me*. Ever since Cat threw that dagger at you that *one* time..."  
  
"I'm sorry, love. But I have a lot of sisters clammering to make up for lost time, you know? I don't even celebrate half of these holidays, for the love of Allah. It's like they're making it up; if they call me up for Kwanza I think I'll go nuts."  
  
"I know. I'm sorry, too."  
  
"You should be. Heaven's only knows what Ms. Winslow was thinking of my behavior just now, thank you very much."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
"When I figure out who told you my weakness for foot massages, I'm going to have to hug them before I kill them."  
  
"Ah, you know you love it. Especially on the balls of your feet--right about here..."  
  
"Hnnnng..." 


End file.
